Look on my arms,
Look at my thighs,
All covered in scars.

Not a thing any one can do,
To make me stop.
It's my escape,
My addiction perhaps.

The tension all pent up inside,
Comes out,
And comes
ALIVE,
When written on my arms an thighs.

That shiny silver,
Scrap of medal,
Brings my otherwise
Dead soul back
To life.

The lines,
The designs,
Make me feel like an
ARTIST.

The words,
And the hurt,
Are just my muse.

Letting the monster inside,
Seep out a little at a time.

The scars the wounds,
That cover my skin,
Call it a sickness,
Call it a sin,
But it's letting out what ever
That lives,
W
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